Premeditated Murder
by ZiggycamefromMars
Summary: "I am constantly torn between killing myself and killing everyone around me." Hannibal/Will
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first ever Hannibal/Hannigram fic, so I am a bit nervous about putting it up. **

**Warnings: Mention of suicide/suicidal thoughts.**

**Thank you for reading! Comments and whatnot would always be nice.**

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Everything has become difficult. His sanity is unravelling strand by strand, and Will wonders how they can all stand there and lie to him. He knows better than to be passive, than to just sit and believe their words. They are merely trying to comfort him. Would he ever seek solace in their lies? No. No, he couldn't. He could if he tried to, but he knew better than that. He wasn't safe. He wasn't stable. He didn't even feel like himself anymore.

His usual thoughts- ones of killing, not others, but himself- were floating around in his broken mind as he lay there, crumpled sheets bunched up around his sprawled out body. His skin was scrubbed raw, yet it wasn't ever enough to get the blood off. He had tried, of course, to clean himself in that moment of desperation, but once blood is on your hands the stain is permanent. The stain can physically be washed away, but never mentally. His dishevelled brunette ringlets were plastered to his head, wet from sweat and wet from the shower. It had been a failed attempt at cleansing himself, and the pain of it brought Will to retch, a sob caught at his throat as long, shaking fingers dug into his scalp, tugging at his hair.

On the other side of the door Winston whined. The dogs were shut out in the living room—for their protection, of course. He didn't want to distress them when the time came. He couldn't do that to his beloved dogs. The very thought of Winston pawing at his lifeless body, licking him and pining for him was almost unbearable. It was frightening in a way, to know his dogs would be left to some inconceivable fate. Perhaps Alana would feel guilty and take them in. Perhaps Jack would send them to a rescue centre. The latter didn't seem an entirely positive option; Winston needed his pack, and the pack needed to stay together. They were family.

He had tried it before, but Jack had interrupted him. It had been a dangerous way, much more messy. It would have been a slack job, because it was born from the spur of the moment, a single flash of insanity behind closed eyes. A gun was his chosen method. He had placed the gun in his mouth, wondering if it would hurt, of if the numbness would grab him before he had the chance to realise. But Reality came crashing through his door in the form of Jack, and the feeling of cold, greasy metal in his mouth suddenly did not appeal. And he placed the gun back in its drawer.

Why did he do it? Nobody dared to ask. They all merely looked upon him with soft eyes, but behind the sympathetic demeanour he knew exactly what they were thinking: unstable.

The sleeping pills were the best option, he had decided- less messy, less blood. He didn't need any more of that on him. A successful suicide demands good organization and a calm state of mind, both of which are usually incompatible with the suicidal state of mind. But it will work. It has to. Usually the pills were to help him sleep without the dreams, but sometimes Will wondered if he was having a reversed nightmare. He didn't want to wake up, often. Sometimes he woke up from a nightmare, relieved, but distraught once more when he realised he had also woken up into a nightmare. Because his instability was surreal; so many had told him he was sane, had lied to him and told him not to put himself down, but he saw now. He saw himself. The sanity was slowly fading away as each moment passed, and Will was afraid he would murder someone, or hurt someone. It would have been easier, he decided, if he hadn't met anyone. In a way he regretted becoming friendly with Lecter, because a tightening sensation was settling in his stomach, and his eyes were stinging with tears, making it harder. Lecter made it harder for him to say goodbye—as did his dogs, Alana and even Jack. There was no turning back now.

su·i·cide

Suicide is a form of murder. If he continued to live, then the only other type of murder he will commit is to kill another being. At least this way the only other person he murders is himself, and that isn't so bad. It doesn't hurt as much. In fact, it numbs the pain just a little.

He was in the grip of death's icy cold fingers, guilt and remorse for the people he couldn't have saved gnawing at him, the end in plaintive sight. It did hurt. Whether it was a physical sort of hurt or mental he did not know; it just hurt. Silent sobs wracked his body as his already unstable mind began to unravel, bits and pieces of himself already fading away to join the others in the blank void.

He counted the seconds till he forgot who he was.


	2. Chapter 2

"Why." It was not a question, but a demand. It was hissed through clenched teeth, with familiar brown eyes burning with fury. Understandable fury, he decides. There are broad shoulders, a dishevelled suit, hair unkempt and weary eyes, but he knew it is Hannibal. He knows the man has been sat there the whole time.

And he realised this is not The Afterlife. It is The Nightmare. It is the thing he had tried so hard to escape from, the thing he had hoped to end after such a long time of suffering and insanity. All he ever wanted was for the numbness to cease, to feel absolutely nothing. Numbness was a feeling. He didn't even want to feel that, or the pain the catheter is inducing.

He has failed at the attempt yet again, and so he must continue living, the murderer he knows that lies within threatening to spill, and Will worries he cannot contain this. He did not plan this far ahead; he did not expect to be saved or to live, but for it all to end. The world had made a grave mistake, saving him. So Will thickly swallows, avoiding the intense gaze of Hannibal, who is frantically searching, evidently worrying.

"Unstable." Is all he manages to mutter, the dryness of his throat chafing him. He doesn't want to say anymore, fearing that he might sob, or say too much. Hannibal looks almost vulnerable sat there, as if he hasn't eaten for a considerable amount of time. It is crazy, and not like Hannibal at all.

"Your suicide attempt was scandalously beautiful," Hannibal muttered, pressing a hand to Will's cheek. "You looked so peaceful, so calm. I had never seen you looking like that before. I wanted to let you have that permanently—I would, if I could. But I can't."

At the other's touch, Will stiffened slightly, straining his eyes to look up at Hannibal with uncertainty and certain sadness. He felt strange. It was almost inconceivable, so he chose to ignore it, merely settling for jerking his head away, a sigh of pain slipping through his dry lips.

"I'm insane."

Hannibal, as if Will could see him, nodded. "I know," he flatly murmured, removing his hand and placing it on the bed, beside Will's. A long finger reached out, skin threatening to touch skin, but was retracted, desires left wanting.

"I know," he repeated again, "But so am I, Will."

Will's head ached. He was thinking of the pain, and wondering how it was possible for physical and mental agony to be so intense. He struggled to understand how he was still conscious and able to think clearly, eyes drowsily fluttering open and closed.

No one moved in the room. Three minutes went by, then ten more. The silence was hateful, and Will thought it was mocking him. Silence was usually beautiful for him because it reminded him of nothingness, and the blank void that came with death. But today it had the opposite effect on him. He found himself unable to enjoy it, worried he might never have the silence. And Hannibal, who was still lingering by his bedside, dark eyes sharp and boring into Graham's back, was not fond of it either.

"You never answered my question."

"I thought you would have known," Will interjected, too sharply, too quickly. He offered a slight frown, his forehead crinkling as he strained his eyes to focus on the pristine floor. "You constantly psychoanalyze me, after all."

Hannibal merely frowned, staring down at shaking fingers. "I would rather hear you say it, Will," he softly muttered.

"I can't eat and I can't sleep. I'm not doing well in terms of being a functional human, you know? I don't feel like myself. I've been changing; I'm not who I was."

He drew a deep breath, turning his head slightly to look at Hannibal. "All of a sudden I became aware of my insanity, and I began looking into it intently. I read into my mind, and the more I read into myself, the more it gave me an idea. I made up my mind to kill myself that night—the one where Jack had found me. But two months had elapsed and it was still lying in the drawer, because suddenly the taste of greasy metal didn't appeal to me anymore. Ever since that failed attempt I knew, Hannibal, I was going to kill someone. I am constantly torn between killing myself and killing everyone around me, so I took the safer option."

Hannibal knew that if Will killed himself, his own psyche would be affected. He saw something in Will Graham; it was subtle, but it was there and it was beautiful and attractive to Hannibal. He wanted to take Will and dominate him. He wanted control of him and, up until that very night, had control of him. He could feel him gradually slipping like sand through his fingers.

"In a fit of despair it seemed like the right thing to do. It was easy enough to be the martyr, to fool yourself into thinking you were saving lives, Will. But I assure you, the lives of many would be lost without you." The words spilled out thickly, almost as if they were threatened by tears. And Hannibal breathed in deeply, fingers reaching out to stroke Will's fingers.

At the feeling of flesh against flesh Will opened his eyes. He turned slightly towards Hannibal, his body curling up as if to protect himself, and he gently cleared his throat. Hannibal wouldn't listen, he knew. He would always counteract with some beautiful psychological shit, would always have something better to say. And Will knew he couldn't ever beat that—or hope to.

He would have to give in, as always.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you for reading! Remember, reviews and things keep me motivated!**

He could not merely sit back and watch Will. He had to reach out to him, before he lost him permanently. Will Graham was the only person to see the world in a similar way, the only person he could see a friendship in; and he wanted to take this opportunity and grab it before it faded forever. He wondered if he had gone too far, if Will's mind could stand what needed to be done next, but those insecurities were pushed aside in the form of a hand reaching out and grabbing his own.

"Haven't you got patients to see?" Will languidly opened one eye, brushing his flesh against Hannibal's as he removed his hand.

He didn't know why he did it, it just happened. It was like instinct. It was like some meek attempt at trying to hold onto what was close, what wanted to stay. Hannibal had more than proved that, and Will felt obliged to take advantage of that. He wanted to feel real, and Hannibal was an anchor, pulling him back down into reality. He made him feel safe, he made him feel comfy. It was the feeling of familiarity, something like a light, guiding him home. And it was something he lacked growing up as a child; something he desired as an adult, now he had the chance to have it.

Lecter did not flinch, nor did he make a single indication as to how he was feeling; he simply looked down at Will, offering an arched eyebrow. "The patients can wait," he murmured. "They are more than capable of surviving without me for a couple of days. Besides, I told them to visit another colleague of mine if they were experiencing any setbacks. They have my phone number too, Will. It is not as if I am neglecting them."

"And how is that working out for you?" Will slurred as he spoke, sleepless nights evident.

"Very well," Hannibal replied in earnest, pressing thin lips together, "All for the exception of Franklin, of course."

"Franklin?"

Hannibal slowly nodded, his eyes flickering across to settle on Will's face. "Yes, he's perhaps one of the more…persistent of my patients."

Will chuckled under his breath.

From the very moment Hannibal had settled himself down in the chair next to Will's bed, thin lips pressed together as he watched the struggle for survival, Franklin had been trying to hunt him down. The patient had been so used to consistency; to finding Hannibal in his office no matter how early he had arrived to his appointment, to know Hannibal would never miss an appointment. But Will Graham had been hospitalized, and Franklin had to settle for a mere voicemail.

Hannibal did not want to tell Will about the numerous incidents in which Franklin had appeared at his room's door, nor did he want to tell Will about the whispers. The whispers were dangerous- to Will, and to himself. They inflicted a sort of pain that only someone like he and Will could understand. They were so alike, yet so different, and Hannibal felt obliged to save him from those whispers. The whispers would do no good, anyway. They would be a hindrance to his capture of Will, they would thrust him into the harsh light of reality, and he needed to protect Will from that.

It was that desire and instinct to protect Will that caused Hannibal to reach out and press cool fingers to Will's head, stroking away the masses of curls that had stuck to it. "How do you feel today?"

"Like dying," Will murmured, turning to press his face into the pillow. "Always like dying."

"That has been your answer for the past three days, Will. I feel inclined to change that for you."

Will moved his head yet again, this time forcing Lecter to remove his hand and bring it back to rest on the bed beside him. "No, please don't. Don't lie to me anymore. I see who I am now, and I don't like it. I look in the mirror and what I see is hateful; it is disgusting, it's a monster, and I realise-"

"Will."

"—I realise that what I see in the mirror is who I'll ever be," he continued, undeterred by the sharp warning that slipped through Hannibal's lips. "I should accept it, but I can't. I can either stop looking in mirrors, or kill myself. I've tried both. I've failed both."

The room feel silent, spare for Will's painful, ragged breathing and the incessant ticking of the clock. The fragile man on the bed stretched out, writhing in the sheets to try and find a more comfortable position, the migraine growing worse with each minute that passed. He gritted his teeth together, the inevitable sob rising up in his throat, a lump being the only thing between him and that sob. He was unstable, and he knew that now- knew it for definite, and hated it. He wanted to change, to be different, but something during the process of making him better had gone wrong. He'd ended up with the continuous feeling of being torn. He was torn between killing everyone around him, or himself. The latter was dominating, of course. It seemed the more logical reason, to rid the world of something unstable, something dangerous.

And Will Graham's motive couldn't be any more obvious to Hannibal who had, quite frequently, taken the liberty to sit and listen as Will talked in his sleep. He listened intently, often pressing a clenched fist to his own mouth to prevent himself from speaking. His own therapist was wrong; there could be nothing but harm as a result of merely sitting back and watching Will Graham deteriorate. The deterioration made the foundations of his mind unstable, each thought blurred and perplexing. In this state of mind it may have been easier to manipulate Will, but it was time to be his light, to guide him towards his home.

He would not let him reach home entirely, but Will would get near. He would make sure of it.

"Your mind is beautifully complex, Will," Hannibal sighed, digging his nails into the bed. "So beautifully complex, that I worry it will be the end of you. I worry it is putting too much strain on you—that this-," he gestured to the air, "-is all too much for you. Jack should have listened to Alana Bloom. She was right."

Will mediated on what he had said for but a mere minute, before inwardly sighing and turning himself to look at Hannibal. His soft, brown eyes focused on Hannibal's face, and Will felt another sob rise up in his throat.

In that moment he realised Hannibal was his paddle. He realised he needed Hannibal to keep him stable, for familiarity. It wasn't Alana Bloom who, initially, he had thought of as someone he needed, someone who was a source of stability; it was Hannibal Lecter. Stability was a Suit and Tie. It was an Office, it was Brown Eyes. It was Hannibal Lecter.

"I can't just leave." It was a weak argument, he knew, but he was tired. And he was tired of living, of breathing, of feeling vulnerable. He felt like a child, clinging on to the man who sat beside him. He wondered if it was a petulant thing to do, or if it was right.

"Of course you can-not permanently, though," Hannibal muttered, seemingly distracted by something else. "I will ring Jack and personally pull you out of there for a short period of time; for respite, and for your wellbeing. I do not care about the lives of others. I care about yours."

He wondered if it was love, or some sort of childish desire—the desire to be protected, to have a figure who would help him, and maybe even save him.

"-And I believe," Hannibal continued, "that I have every right to do this. And that I must do this, as your friend and your colleague. I will be your light, Will. I will guide you home."

Home. Home meant stability. It also meant safety, family and everything Will desired. He was so frail without them, as if a big chunk of him was missing. And if Hannibal Lecter was being sincere—and he could tell, for the look on Hannibal's face said it all- then Will Graham was going home. He was going to be stable. He needed this. He couldn't kill anyone, and if he failed at killing himself, then perhaps this was the only way.

So Will reached out a hand, shaking slightly as it reached towards Lecter's, and as flesh came into contact with flesh, he felt something stir inside of him. If it was gratitude or something more he did not know, he merely wrapped his fingers around Lecter's wrist, eyes straining up to look at the man, to look at home. And he muttered a soft, "Thank you," before closing his eyes, and shuffling closer to Hannibal.

Hannibal returned the touch, the gentleness of expression as he regarded him. It was Will Graham he needed to protect from the world; Will Graham was the closest thing he had to a friend, someone who understood him. "I will be your light," he said once more, leaning in closer. "I will guide you home."

"I know." Will closed his eyes as Hannibal moved closer, his fragility of mind shattering as he felt the hot breath on his face.

In that moment he was so sure they were nearly kissing, mouth upon mouth, hungrily searching for something; for want, for love, for closeness. But it was just a trick of the mind, for Lecter had pulled away the moment Jack Crawford stormed in. And Will closed his eyes, and his mind, hand slipping back under the sheets to rest on his beating heart.

He felt so alive, so good. And it had felt so real. No longer was he hell-bent on destroying himself in that moment; he was hell-bent on going back, on getting better and going back home. Yet a worry wormed its way into his stomach, settling there and making him feel sick for a mere moment. He found himself searching for Lecter's eyes, for a moment of clarity, but could not find them. The man had moved outside, now talking with Jack about him, and Will buried himself under sheets, further and further into his despair.


	4. Chapter 4

"Do you really mean to tell me that Will Graham is having a break, of his own accord?"

Hannibal merely arched an eyebrow, shifting his coat along the crook of his arm. "I can understand your doubts," Hannibal sighed, "And I didn't believe it myself, but yes; Will Graham asked for respite. He thinks it would be better for everyone that way, and I'd rather comply with his wishes."

Jack Crawford stood there, speechless for the first time. He had just lost a very valuable asset- not forever, he knew, but the ripper would act fast, and would probably take his chance and go on a wild killing spree. He simply pressed a hand to his crinkled forehead, rubbing it in a circular motion, before clearing his throat and nodding with reluctance. "Alright, Doctor Lecter. Will can have time off. I suppose he'll come to his senses soon enough, though."

"Oh, I don't doubt that for one moment," Hannibal agreed, nodding. "But I'd much rather he waited until he was in a better state; it would be more beneficial for everyone else, don't you think?"

"Are you implying that Will Graham is a threat?"

Lecter paused for a moment, considering the words he should use. He needed to be careful, to protect Will from any whispers that were born from the conversation. With a slight sigh of contemplation he inclined his head slightly, eyes narrowed, piercing through Jack Crawford's skull.

"Will Graham is unstable, yes, but I would hardly call him a threat." Broken, yes, but a threat? Hannibal could never see him as that. Perhaps it was his own blindness, or the desire to take Will and own him, to mould him into the work of art he had always desired. Or perhaps it was instinct. Whatever the answer, he knew he would let nothing stand between Will and his deserved rest; it was essential for Hannibal's own needs, and most certainly for Will's.

Yet despite his best attempts at reassuring Jack, the man still stood before him, scowling and rigid with anguish. He needed to know if Will Graham was really how Doctor Lecter said he was. Suspicions were always there, always instinct, and he needed to know. To see Will Graham in the flesh was more than necessary; it was mandatory. "Doctor Lecter, as much as I am inclined to believe you, I would rather see Will in the flesh."

Hannibal nodded. "But of course," he answered without a moment's hesitation. "Come, he should still be awake. We were only talking for a few minutes, and Will seems to be preoccupied with staying awake."

"More nightmares?"

Lecter turned to Jack before opening the door, thin lips threatening to twist into a smile. "Yes."

"Then," Jack interjected, pushing the door closed again with a gloved hand," how can we be sure he knows what he's talking about? Lack of sleep messes with the mind, and I'm sure in Will's current state your influence may have spoken for him." A gloved hand retreated once more, falling limply to rest by his side. Usually his nature was not this standoffish, but the overwhelming compulsion to protect Will subsided over everything else. Fuck morals, he thought to himself, Will Graham needed his help.

"Are you suggesting that I have lied?" Hannibal's tone was calm, collected. If there was a single hint if anger hidden in that brain of his, he hid it well. He was a master of hiding emotions, highly practised in doing so after realising his emotions would only cause him to despair, to lose clarity. That was, of course, how he felt with Will, but that was somewhat unrecognisable to him.

"Perhaps I am," Jack eventually answered, drawing out a long, shaky breath. "But surely you understand why, Doctor Lecter? You of all people should understand the need to help Will Graham."

"I do."

"Good." Jack smiled, opening the door and gesturing for Hannibal to pass through with his other hand.

From inside the room Will stirred under his covers, a sweaty hand peeling the pristine white off of himself. If he could have hidden himself away from Jack Crawford he would, but he couldn't, so he didn't. Instead he peered up into the blinding light of the hospital room, dry lips pressed together in protest. He didn't want to speak, fearing that whatever words left his mouth would give him away.

"How do you feel?" Jack asked, seating himself in the chair beside Will. Hannibal did the same. "Other than terrible, I mean."

He moved his head slightly to the side, eyes trying to focus on anywhere else but Jack. It seemed to be a sickly interpretation of a shrug, one that earned him a look of disapproval.

"Okay, so you're still feeling terrible," Jack clarified, a slightly exasperated sigh slipping through parted lips, "But how do you feel? Tired? Like you need a break?"

Will knew exactly where Jack was going with this. He was no fool. He'd heard them through the glass, thick, solemn tones discussing his health and need of respite. Even now, after a considerable amount of time spent thinking up a way to counteract Jack, he still did not know what to do, of how to react. He was unsure of himself, and of others.

"Ask Doctor Lecter. We already covered this."

Jack snorted, turning his head to glance at the silent doctor. With expectant eyes he raised a brow, placing gloved hands on his chest. "Well?"

As Hannibal drew a long, deep breath he caught Will's eye. The man seemed to be pleading with him, almost asking him to lie. It was some sort of charade, and even though Will was sick of it, he was clinging onto the feigned tales with all his might. Hannibal respected this, as he respected Will's wishes, and offered Will silent reassurance in the form of soft eyes, before turning back to Jack.

"He is in pain," Hannibal said, peering down at his fingers. "But pain is to be expected. He caused himself a considerable amount of internal damage with the number of pills he consumed. He is lucky to be alive."

"I suppose I'll have to settle for that. So Will, how are you finding the hospital?"

"Garish," he said fervently, and he looked back at Hannibal with raised eyebrows. "The nurses are the right ones to go to if you have a question. Unlike the doctors, who stand and nervously fidget like they don't want to be there, the nurses will answer you. The food is disgusting. The toilets are adequate. I'd hardly give it a five-star rating. Why, are you thinking of sending me to a different sort of hospital?"

Not the kind of hospital that cured, but the kind that held their patients, treating them like some sort of prisoner. He meant the kind of hospital that took their patients and withdrew them from the norm; from life, from the world and its inhabitants. People there no longer made progress; they were simply bodies floating around, no mind of their own, so many drugs pumped into them they didn't even need an identity anymore. That sort of thing frightened Will. His instability was the ticket there, and he needed to lose it, or to hide it.

It made him sweat. He licked his lips with discomfort, wiping a sweaty hand across his brow, before pulling himself up so he could be sitting. "I wouldn't suggest it, you know. It wouldn't be good for me."

"I never said anything of the sort." Jack held up his hands, almost in self-defence. He was merely initiating conversation, recognising that the topic was probably a sensitive one for Will. And he felt slightly bad for it, looking Will squarely in the face.

It looked like, in that short space of time, years had eaten away at Will. The eyes that once shone with light were darkened, almost lifeless, not even an ounce of that familiar exuberance that they once held. He was covered in sweat from head to toe, lips chafed and dry. Inside he pictured Will burning, the complex foundation of his mind unravelling before Jack's very eyes, and the man could not look at him anymore. He felt like a villain. He was the reason Will Graham was so broken and so anguished, but there was nothing he needed more than to push him back into the field. Confliction and contradiction clouded his mind. He wished it could have been easier to pick Will up and shake him by the shoulders, to shake him so hard he shook the sickness out him.

"Clarify one thing for me," Crawford murmured, breaking the silence. "Do you need a break, Will? Do you feel like you need to step back from the case?"

For the first time in a long time Will looked Jack in the eye, his lips quivering slightly as he reached out and pressed a glass of water to his lips. He took gentle, slow sips, before swallowing thickly and placing the glass in its original place. "I need. " He hesitated, wetting his lips. A slip of the tongue would be enough to spoil it all, to shove him back into the harsh light. His nightmares would come true; the taunting of others ringing loud and clear in his ears. And he shook. He shook, and winced, and gulped for air.

"What I need," he gulped, brain searching for a moment of clarity, "is for you to leave."

Jack nodded, tugging at his collar as stood from the chair. He had seen enough. In fact, he'd seen more than enough to satisfy his concerns. Will Graham was, quite clearly, ill. And Hannibal Lecter was the best person to deal it with—not Alana Bloom, or some other psychiatrist. Before he turned the handle of the door he peered back at the two, a smile playing on his lips for but a mere second.

For there was Hannibal, in all his worry and anguish, pressing a cold flannel to Will's head as Will gratefully accepted the arm that had wound around him, his head pressed firmly into Hannibal's side. The actions that were exchanged between the two were tentative, almost loving. In that moment as he stood and drank in the sight, Jack Crawford knew Hannibal Lecter would be good for Will Graham.

He would not speak of this tender moment to anyone else. It deserved to be kept hidden, undiscovered from the ears of those who loved to gossip. Gossip tended to spiral out of control in his experience.


	5. Chapter 5

That night they found him wandering through the darkened corridors of the hospital. They smelt like disinfectant and false hope. Hannibal had left him for a mere moment to answer a frantic call from Franklin, and in the minutes he had spent listening to Franklin cry about being abandoned, Will had risen from the bed in an unconscious state and had padded through the door, and through the hospital.

When they found him he was peering at the white wall, eyes open and detached. It taken Hannibal and Hannibal alone to move him from that state of delirium, strong hands taking hold of Will's arms and guiding the fragile man back to his room, whispering soft, kind words as the staff all stared.

He made note to deal with one particular member of staff—Stuart White, to be precise. The man had made some disrespectful comment on Will's wellbeing, and anyone who had any self-respect knew that was rude.

"You see skin and cuts and frailty."

"I see you," Hannibal replied, blinking at the sheer suddenness of Will's comment.

"Then you'll know what's going on in my head," he murmured, shifting under the covers. He bit his lip, almost hard enough to draw blood. "Please tell me you know what's going on in my head, Hannibal. If I told you what was really in my head, you'd never let me leave. No matter how many times I'd beg you, you'd grip onto me; you'd try and shelter me. I don't want that. I have no desire to spend time in this hell while I'm still, supposedly, alive."

Fragility never left Will's mind. Hannibal thought it made him all the more beautiful; the way he would so eloquently express the pain, the look of sheer anguish on his face whenever he became distressed. Hannibal wanted to capture it, to take it in his hands and keep hold of it. He was so beautiful, and the greatest tragedy was that nobody else saw it in that way. They all thought the same thing: unstable.

His life was a fragment. And with this disconnected dreamlike state, he felt a sense of nothingness. It was Nothingness that stabbed him in the heart and captured him, and devoured him whole. In his dreams he ran from the same haunting things: the lives he had not saved, the reoccurring stag, his parents, the bullies. But in reality he could not run. He could not outrun his own insanity, any more than he could outrun his own shadow. It was impossible, and with that impossibility lived a lingering sense of defeat.

And Hannibal wanted to speak, but Will took that burden away from him, closing his eyes as he whispered, "I think you should let me go."

Hannibal reached out a hand, before leaning over and pressing a hot kiss to Will's forehead. "I cannot do that."

The night he had swallowed those pills was the night he had tried to kill a part of himself. That was the reality of it; the delusion that he could only kill the unstable part of himself, and that part alone. He practised for it, long and hard, like studying for a test. He saw a knife and would imagine the sharp, cool steel piercing his flesh, until he had torn himself up and was nothing but bone. He saw windows, and imagined himself falling from them, wondering if it felt like flying. When he was younger he had fallen from a window, but all he could remember was pain and broken bones. Perhaps with different scenarios it felt different. He thought of himself in that moment as a child, how free he had felt, and how frightened.

Will wept, Hannibal's hand clutching his sweaty one, and continued to do so for the rest of the night. He existed, but he did not live.


	6. Chapter 6

"How do you feel?"

"Empty."

"How can I stop you from feeling empty?"

Will hesitated, drawing a long, hard breath. "By taking me away," he gestured, "from all this."

"Will, you're not thinking straight." Alana Bloom reached out a hand, placing it on Will's shoulder. "Please, just let me help you. We can talk—anything, about absolutely anything. Your dogs, if you want. Find something meaningful in your life, Will. I know it's possible."

He seemed to disregard the topic she truly wanted to talk about, his eyes flitting across to settle on her face and regard her with a piercing stare. He simply shrugged, unblinking. "I want to go someplace else," he murmured, fiddling with his empty glass. The pristine white walls around them were almost daunting; too bright, too full of nothing. "I want to go somewhere-anywhere but here."

"Could you tell me why?"

"They aren't interested in healing you—not people like me. They just want to stabilize you, and then people are supposed to move on. They think if they pump you full of enough drugs you'll be so out of it, that you won't be able to recognize your own mind. And to think," He snorted, "this is only a regular hospital. Just you wait until they cart me away."

She thought she knew him once, but it turned out she didn't. The Will Graham she once knew was gone, frail from the sheer disturbance his mind was left with as a result of his gift. And, in a way, she felt responsible. She felt like she could have stopped him, like she could have reached out with both of her arms and taken him in them, and pulled him back into the light. She felt like she had failed him, and that stung.

"Maybe you need to stop thinking like this, Will. Maybe you need to take a step back, and see what we're trying to do for you." Her tone suggested despair, anguish. Her face showed anger, impatience. The soft, gentle hands dug into his shoulder, and Will knew she was trying too hard to cling on.

It hurt to let go. She understood that Will was so broken, the possibility of fixing him seemingly impossible. A long time ago she would have continued to fight for his sanity, to have persisted in saving him, but Will Graham could not be saved- not her by her, at least. Alana Bloom looked upon him with saddened eyes, swallowing back the lump that had so inconveniently formed in her throat. Sometime it seemed the harder she tried to hold on to Will, or the delusion of his sanity, the more it wanted to get away. It felt inevitable. And so she perceived herself to be like some kind of criminal for having felt, for having wanted. She wouldn't be good for him. Will Graham wouldn't be good for her.

Will could sense it somewhere, lingering in the air of the bleached-out room, with its scent of disinfectant, false hope and lies. He had smelt this smell many times before, each long day stretching out, seemingly never-ending. Each time he woke up it was the same painful routine: eat breakfast, vomit breakfast, brush teeth, and shower. And then the nurse would come and weigh him, tutting in disapproval as she noted the loss of weight. Hannibal would be there, too, staring at him with searching eyes. He knew, but he also knew Will well enough to keep quiet.

It tired him, and he rose from the chair, empty glass in his hand as he walked towards the sink. "I think you need a break," he offered, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he turned on the sink. "I heard you were in that waiting room for a long time. I also heard that you haven't been sleeping."

A small noise of protest slipped through Alana's lips, and Will turned, chuckling under his breath as he turned back to her. "Hey, you've lectured me long enough. Let me lecture you."

"I'm doing just fine, thank you." She was lying, of course. Lying badly through gritted teeth, with her flowery perfume masking the scent of sadness. She'd felt it before, when her granddad was in the hospital before he died. It was the same sense of longing, the desire to come crashing through those doors, to pick that person up and take them someplace safe. She had camped out in the waiting room, eating her meals there, sleeping in the chairs every night. Sometimes a colleague would come and offer half-sincere condolences, meekly holding out a bunch of flowers.

Flowers couldn't cure him. She took them away some nights, to place them in her own home and fill it with the colour she felt she so lacked. It was like a stream of beauty, reminiscent of the time Will had brought her flowers, flowing through the heavy sludge of fear and grief.

"Just fine," he repeated, raising a sceptical eyebrow. "You'd be anything but 'just fine', right?"

"Right," she half-heartedly smiled, standing from the chair. They exchanged hesitant looks for a long moment, Will gradually sipping away the contents of his glass, Alana's stern demeanour unwavering, until she reached out a hand and pressed it against his cheek.

"Goodbye, Alana Bloom." Soft, brown eyes fell to look at her trembling lips, and Will was reminded of that night where he had kissed her, searching for a moment of clarity, for sustenance and familiarity.

"Goodbye," she murmured, hand slipping from his cheek. "Stay…safe."

He snorted.

* * *

It smelt disgusting, when it should have smelt so good. Rather than appealing to his stomach, to his hunger, it caused him to retch. He tightened his jaw and regarded the meal set before him with determined eyes. No matter how much Hannibal would push him, he would not eat it. He could not eat it. Eating meant sustenance, and sustenance equalled life. He was still on that everlasting quest of self-destruction, feeling sure he was not yet successful in doing so.

He didn't want to see anyone. He merely sank back down into white sheets, sinking further into his despair. With the curtains drawn and a lingering sense of disgust in the air, he sighed, placing his hands on his stomach. Whatever was happening to him was his own fault. He had done something wrong, something so huge he couldn't even see it, or simply chose not to. There was no sense of what he once was; he was inadequate, and stupid. He didn't deserve food.

"Will, you are wasting away."

He smiled underneath the sheet; a crooked one, one that showed he had little regard for himself. He had found the loop-hole in Hannibal's plan: the man could not force him to eat, could not make him eat. He would simply have to watch, to remain as Will refused every morsel his body craved. He was strong, he was in control. It was nice to have control for once, to feel-

"Will." This time Hannibal did not need to say any more; he said it through his piercing stare, through the hand that reached out and yanked the covers over Will's head. He said it through the twist of lips, the hot kiss that pressed itself against Will's forehead.

And he kissed him over, and over and over, until Will could barely breathe anymore. It felt like he was drowning in some wonderful pool of beauty, of belonging. It felt so long since Hannibal had kissed his forehead, and the kisses became so vigorous he began to wonder if they meant something more.

"You are out of control," Hannibal breathed through clenched teeth, his lips merely inches away from Will's face, "So completely and utterly out of control. And I want to take this and contain it, like an oil spill."

"It's too difficult," Will weakly protested, peering up at Lecter with a sense of uncertainty.

"But why, Will?"

"I taste only shame."

Hannibal nodded, pressing hot, sticky curls from Will's forehead. He wanted to bare his teeth, to drag them across Will's bare neck, but instead withdrew himself, pulling back abruptly. "Shame for what?" he asked, frowning. "Shame for having a mind so beautiful, that you struggle to contain it? There is nothing wrong with that." He bent down and took Will's head with both hands. "There is nothing wrong with you."

"I'm trapped," Will muttered, his heart beating so fast he thought it would burst from his chest. He gasped for air, fingers knotting and gripping onto the sheets underneath; he was unstable, searching for Hannibal's eyes, to feel lips against his skin again. "I'm trapped in the illusion that I can escape this flesh. And once I've escaped this flesh, I've escaped emotions. I've escaped my insanity. I can be body, bone, muscle and organs- but not flesh, never flesh." That flesh is him; it is his face, the scars on his back.

Hannibal straightened himself as he stood, hands falling to rest by his sides. With a slight shake of the head he watched Will, promising himself in that moment he would show Will just how beautiful he was.

He found his madness almost eloquent. He could use it; mould it into something beautiful, of his own design. He could make the perfect being.

Hannibal could show the world Will Graham's beautiful insanity.


	7. Chapter 7

Hannibal won on this one occasion. He'd seen enough of Will's feeble attempts to hide bread in the drawer beside his bed, had witnessed too many nights of Will bent over the toilet, forcing himself to throw up. He didn't dare cook a meal for Will, for fine meat would have gone to waste. And now Will had finally tried a bite of chicken, chewing languidly and with a look of both disgust and despair on his thinning face. Eyes blinked rapidly, and it was another three minutes before Will finally finished that one morsel.

It was hard, to be truthful. It was hard to fight against the compulsion to run to the bathroom and throw it all up, to let the food slither down his throat and settle in his stomach, coating his insides with calories, with life. Despite the lump that formed in his throat as he stabbed a forkful of carrot, Will's stomach growled in appreciation. He thought it odd; that his stomach should have learnt by now, that food didn't come often. Perhaps it was gnawing away at him on the inside. Perhaps it was grateful for something other than him to dine on.

Will stared long and hard at the long, thin strips of carrot on his fork until they became nothing but blurred orange. He gulped and gulped and gulped frantically, the bile rising up in his throat, the need to be sick almost subsiding over everything else. In these slither of carrots there were nutrients—good things, he tried to assure himself. Carrots were low in calorie. Carrots were good for your body. He repeated these things inside his head as he shoved them in, hungrily chewing, reciting the words like some sort of sacred prayer. And then, as he had done with the first forkful of food he had so resentfully devoured, his eyes found Hannibal's, searching for their steadied gaze. He wanted to make Hannibal proud; he wanted, most of all, for Hannibal to believe that he could get better, and would not need to give up on him.

He never wanted Hannibal to give up on him, no matter how much he wanted to give up on himself.

"A bit more wouldn't hurt," Hannibal softly said, offering a reassuring pat on Will's back. He watched him chew the food with great ire, teeth eventually grinding together as he'd long devoured the food. "You're doing well. I don't see why there is any reason for you to stop, Will. It will benefit you."

Will shrugged, shifting against the warm hand that rested on his back. "Well," he mumbled, with his mouth full of more carrot, "it feels like my stomach definitely wants it. My mind, on the other hand…"

"-Is fighting with you," Lecter finished for him, his hand slipping away.

He weakly nodded, setting the fork back down in its place. He'd love to tell Hannibal about the voice he hears in his head when he thinks of eating, but knows that some things are best left unsaid. These unsavoury things are not the exception. Countless therapists would probably push him to spill those secrets, but not Hannibal Lecter. Lecter understood him well; he understood that Will needed time to speak, to gather his thoughts. He knew that, in his own time, Will would reveal. And that was fine-so long as Will did not deteriorate too harshly in the process of waiting.

"I understand completely-regarding your silence, of course. It is only natural, Will. Talking about your feelings defeats the purpose of having those feelings," he shrugged, standing from his seat. "Everything, supposedly, must have a name, a reason as to why it is what it is. And I understand why you disregard the very thought of talking. You worry that you'll remind yourself of the reason why this is what it is."

Will felt his jaw tighten, pressing fingers to his forehead and rubbing it in a circular motion. "You all have so much to say. And I know you're all talking; talking to one another, whispering different things in different ears—and I don't care. I don't care what you all have to say, because I've already solved it. I know."

"And what is that?" Hannibal asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That I'm unstable."

Those words brought out silence. A silence so deep and so terrifying at the same time, that Will had to gulp every now and again to make sure he was still alive, that it wasn't another dream. He didn't like the way Hannibal was staring at him. He didn't like the way the room suddenly felt cold, how his stomach churned and the desire to retch all he had eaten overwhelmed him. All the talking, the liquid confessions he felt slipping through his dry lips, was something he didn't like either. It was, in a way, unnatural. He preferred to keep his thoughts on himself, to himself.

And what Hannibal, who was now clenching his hands and watching Will with a certain closeness, did not want, was for Will to begin thinking about the salacious rumours that were spreading between colleagues. They would only tear him apart.

"Hannibal." Will broke the unnatural silence. He peered across at the man, eyes downcast and blinking rapidly. It felt like a horrible dream. He felt strange. Without the sound of Hannibal, he could not remember the man's presence. He needed that presence to feel complete, to keep himself stable with the sense of familiarity he always craved.

"Yes?" Hannibal replied, after a lengthy amount of time.

Will shuffled in his seat, sweating, worrying. He mentally cursed himself for fumbling over his words, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "You know they told me there was nothing wrong with me—the doctors, is what I mean. "

"Yes."

"He made me realise that what happened to me—what is happening to me- was a dark, evil, shameful thing, that I should harbour in my mind and never speak of. Not to you, not to anyone." He paused, drawing a long, ragged breath. "I…I guess what I'm trying to say is, while it may not have been their intention to make me feel like that, I was by my own association. And I've spoken to them before, a few months ago. After that first visit I disassociated myself from emotions, from myself; until I was just a body. I acted as if nothing was wrong and went back to performing like a little circus pony for Jack, because it felt necessary; it felt normal."

"Do you want to feel normal, Will?"

"Yes." Will gulped, nodding as Hannibal came closer. "Yes."

"Then perhaps I could help you," Hannibal murmured, placing his hands either side of Will's rugged face. He looked into soft brown eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. "Would you like that, Will?"

He nodded. He closed his eyes. Hannibal's breath was on his face, reassuring him, helping him to remember who he was, and what he wanted. In a strange way, he had fallen in love with his instability. He loved it because he thought it was all I had, that the one thing that justified his very existence was agony, and the constant want to grab and knife and plunge into his flesh.

But then there was Hannibal, and lips crashing onto his. There were hands digging into his scalp, the feeling of being left breathless. And he felt normal, just as Hannibal had said. He opened his eyes and it was just the two of them. Will was pressing his lips together tightly, as though he were keeping the kiss inside of him, the want and clarity he had so desired finally found, a blissful oblivion.

Hannibal kissed fiercely, as if he were angry. As if he were angry at Will for all the things he had and hadn't said. He paused again, before his mouth came down onto Will's. And that was it. All the self-control he'd exerted over the past weeks went.


	8. Chapter 8

Notes: I'm sorry this isn't that long, but I'm awfully tired. I've been having trouble sleeping lately, but I think I should be able to write more later on today.  
Thanks for reading.

She was a pretty young nurse, there was no denying that. She had a sort of understated beauty; curved lips that were painted a light shade of pink, bright blue eyes that shone like the gems Will's mother used to wear. Her dainty hands would regard him with such care, lips always murmuring a soft apology if she feared it hurt. And Will did, undoubtedly, enjoy the young lady's company. There was an air about her that made her so easy to talk to; she did not talk down to him or any of the other patients, nor did she allow them to feel alone, bustling into their rooms with piles of books and other things to keep their minds preoccupied.

On one particular occasion his mind was in a rather terrible state and he found no conceivable point in living. He had collected his pills from the morning and the night before, and was sat on his bed counting the pills. Choking with dry tears and raging, raging, raging at himself for having a complete and utter lack of regard for the man who he loved, Will had tried to pour the contents down his throat.

But she stopped him. She had burst in through the doors, dropping the paperwork she had been carrying as she walked by, and she had stopped him. Soft arms had reached out to his and hands were tugging gently, the pills slipping through his fingers like water. And then he had sobbed. He had sobbed for so long, so uncontrollably, that Will was surprised at the amount of tears one could cry.

There was no Hannibal beside him when he awoke. A twinge of sadness bubbled in his throat and kept on building as he scanned the room for a sign of him- for a coat, for shoes, for a glass- anything at all to prove Hannibal hadn't left him. Normally it was not such a big deal for Will; he would cope and live through the day without a single qualm, but today he was fragile and he felt as if there was the void steadily crawling back into his mind.

Clarity, in this precise minute as he sat and swallowed back a lump whilst gripping the sheets, was needed. He needed his anchor to ground him, his light to guide him back towards home. He slowly felt himself floating away from the happiness and contentment he had discovered again the day before. His fragility of mind never left him; he would forever be, in his opinion, unstable. They were the signs of depression that crawled inside his mouth as night and strangled him in the morning; the thoughts that ridiculed him and the everlasting sense of having to be content with being discontent. He searched for it in his mirror as he looked into his almost unrecognisable face, before searching for it in the glass of water beside his bed. It was not there.

"Will?"

Tired eyes had looked up from the glass, glazed and with an almost detached facial expression. Through the stab of sadness he felt in his heart he forced a smile, hurting himself as he did so. It hurt physically and mentally to smile, but he continued to do so as he placed the glass back in its original position and pressed his free hand to his forehead, rubbing it in a circular motion.

She smiled back, the familiar flowery scent of hers hitting his nose, hurting his head. "Alright," she muttered, tucking her clipboard back under her arm. "Well, I'm glad to see you're up and well today. We're going to be looking at the results from your scan and then we'll have a meeting to discuss what happens next. I just came to check up on you, because I noticed Doctor Lecter wasn't here."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

"I know." She smiled, bashfully dipping her head as she did so. Underneath her soft, petal-like eyelids he saw her blue eyes brighten, and Will pressed his lips into a thin line.

As five minutes passed Will spent his time twiddling his thumbs, eyes downcast as she bustled about with his medication. Since the incident he had not be trusted to take it alone, the nurses all watching him with their piercing eyes, studying him, trapping him. It meant he was no longer able to accumulate a quick escape plan; no more could he hide the pills that would give him sweet release. He would have to settle for feigning a smile, for tricking them all into thinking he was fine, completely stable.

He ruminated whilst she babbled on about perhaps letting him take a walk later on. He thought about his life, and how there was so much meaning to it that he found it hard to look at it properly. He never wanted to sit and wallow in his self-pity, to merely become a body floating without purpose or to become something filled with such hatred, such hopelessness. Will wanted to feel life once more with all its passion and its colour, but he didn't know how to. It was like his mind had completely disregarded that information, setting him up for a ruthlessly bland life.

And when she was done she offered him a small smile, holding out the paper cup with his pills in. Will took the cup hesitantly, before swallowing them whole, without any water. He coughed slightly as they caught in his throat, a sigh slipping through his lips as he finally swallowed them.

"Thanks," he said, strained.

"I'll be back in four hours to give you your next dose," she replied, moving towards the door. "Until then, I need you to stay where you are."

He snorted. "Where else do you think I'm going to go?"

"Somewhere kinder than this," the nurse murmured, clearing her throat as she walked through it.


	9. Chapter 9

Notes: Another chapter for today, to make up for the lack of updates. However, I am not sure whether or not I should keep this chapter.  
I don't know. It's one of those days when I have very little confidence/love for my writing.

* * *

When Will returned from his walk, he found Hannibal flicking through his files. The nurse usually kept them clipped to the end of his bed, so the compulsion to take them and look into his own stats was rather strong. Yet despite this, he could never bring himself to do it. He left it to Hannibal, who would merely look up, carefully clip them back onto the end of his bed and say nothing.

It was the exact same process this time, except he reached out and patted Will on the shoulder. He intended to show Will compassion, to offer a gentle, comforting touch, but it seemed to have the opposite effect on the already anxious Will, who paused and regarded Hannibal with a furrowed brow.

"Where did you go?"

The way Will was looking at him made his chest hurt for a second, as if someone had pierced it with a needle. He knew there was a crushing loneliness that came with Will's diagnosis, and knew that no matter what he told him, he would refuse to believe it. Perhaps too many diagnoses' would be too much for Will's brain to handle; it would crumble under the crushing weight of having to carry those burdens. He feared for that moment when Will's walls, his protective associations, would disintegrate into complete and utter nothingness.

He swallowed the lump that had so inconveniently formed in his lump and smoothed his blazer. "I went home to clear my mind, to relax. I can only spend so much time here, Will, and I apologise for not leaving a note or something. An old patient of mine decided to pay a visit, too." And he had devoured the rude ex-patient. He found him too arrogant, to devoured by his own ego. He had tasted fine, but the blood was rather persistent.

"Yes, of course." Will sharply jerked his head in the other direction, rubbing at his neck with a shaking hand. His eyes were downcast, blinking rapidly as he tried to focus the vision on something other than Hannibal. "I just woke up feeling lost. My thoughts were not…tasty."

"They never are," Hannibal replied, tilting his head as he observed Will's malnourished frame. "Perhaps we could introduce a sedative, Will. Sleep is an utterly important function, and I will not allow you to suffer as a result of this."

"More pills?"

Hannibal bit the inside of his cheek, eyes traveling along Will's unshaven jawline. He ached to press his lips to it, to kiss the length of it and wrap his arms around Will. But desires were left wanting, as Hannibal merely sighed, murmuring a solemn, "Yes, I am afraid so. Your body can only last so long."

Will's voice dropped. "I hate those pills so much, because I know how much I rely on them to live. And I can't stand it, Hannibal. I can't stand having to wake up to the same routine, people standing over me like I'm some sort of freak."

"It is only a mild sedative," Hannibal persisted, "It will only be a small aspect of your medication. We don't even have to talk about it, Will. Unbroken sleep would do your mind and your body good."

"Will you stop lying to me if I take the sedative?"

The long silence that stretched out after his words was awkward and painful. It brought a sense of hostility, because Will was defensive and beginning to slip through Hannibal's grip due to a fear of lack of honesty. He could see it in the way Will made no attempt whatsoever to look at him, the way his adam's apple bobbed up and down relentlessly, a weak attempt to shift the lump that had formed in his throat. Hannibal saw his eyes flash with trouble and anguish, standing from the chair and slipping a hand into Will's own one.

With flesh against flesh came the inevitable hunger both men fought so hard against. It lingered in their lips which sought to devour the other's, in hands that ached to caress places other than hands, in eyes which were so hungrily watching and observing. And Will's chest heaved quickly, ragged and sounding of desire. He moved his head slightly so he could see Hannibal's face and a small sigh slipped through his lips.

There was his home, his anchor pulling him back to the ground. And there was Hannibal's puppet, wound up and ready to go, to execute whatever he wanted him to do.

"I thought you would feel better about this if I let you discover it by yourself. I thought that I could prevent you from fearing me, that if you knew about my knowing, you would fear I was psychoanalyzing you."

Will's head shook slightly as he brought his eyes to meet Hannibal's. "Fear you?" He shuffled closer to Hannibal, a slightly crooked smile playing on his lips. "I could mistrust you, but never fear you. And as for psychoanalyzing—well, I believe you've already done it."

"I'm sorry Will," Lecter sighed, his lips moving closer to Will's ear as he spoke. "You know observing is what we do. I can't shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off. But please, just amuse me. Take the pills and sleep for once."

"I'll take your damn pills," he growled, turning to face him fully. "But please, tell me before you leave next time. I need my anchor."

Hannibal nodded, smiling thinly as he pressed a kiss to Will's neck. Strong hands wrapped around his slender frame, and underneath Hannibal felt Will shudder with desire.

"And your anchor," he whispered, pressing a hot kiss to Will's collarbone, "needs you."

He felt loved and wanted and needed, and it was so fulfilling. It gave him purpose in life, a soul to cling to when times seemed tough, when a violent stab of sadness wounded him. He continued to let Hannibal kiss him, before pressing his own mouth hot and hard onto Hannibal's, devouring the very essence of life that kept him striving.

In that moment Will no longer felt as if the very air he breathed pained him like long knives. Life was colour, and meaning, and beauty. Life was Hannibal. His life was Hannibal's.


	10. Chapter 10: Final

**A/N: Oh, wow. I never really expected this to get such a great response, so thank you very much!**

Even for Will, who was at this moment in time still blinded by a sense of hopelessness, life still had its gleam of sunshine. And when the sun shined it was so beautiful and so wonderful that Will found himself unable to describe it, his own emotions not adequate enough to express his gratitude and love for the sunlight.

Today was sunlight, he had decided. Today was sunlight because they discussed letting him home after running through his list of medications, after briefing him through his diagnosis. And Will knew that if he survived the darkness that had made a barrier for his escape, he would live and he would live well. He would no longer take the sunshine for granted; he would take it in both hands and share it with Hannibal, with the man who promised to take care of him and to never let him go. The very promise of being someone's love, to be captured within their heart only made the sun shine brighter for him, and his heat beat faster for it wanted to live and to carry on at this precise moment in time.

There was worth and happiness, and within the happiness hope and clarity and all that his unstable mind had whished for since that fateful night, when he had sat on his own bed with Winston pawing at the door, the pills he initially thought would be the gateway to freedom resting in his palm until he had swallowed them all and counted the seconds until he forgot who he was.

As he sat on the uncomfortable plastic chair in Doctor Smith's office he twiddled his thumbs and peered at the floor. He would not dare look around the room, to look at and remind himself of his current position. Even the walls were daunting to him and he would not let them panic him, for today was his day. Today was his sunshine.

In the minutes that passed he ruminated on Hannibal and what the man would be doing at the precise moment, deciding he was probably packing Will's things for him as the staff all instructed anyone but Will himself to pack them. Through his happiness doubt still seeped through, and Will swallowed, running a shaking hand through his curls. Doctor Smith came bustling through the door and sat at his desk, his smile never seeming to falter despite the news he had in store for Will Graham.

"Home today, huh?"

Will nodded. "Of sorts."

"Come now," Doctor Smith chided, "Doctor Lecter was very kind in his decision to let you stay at his home. Besides, it's the very reason why you're going home so early."

"You don't trust me to be alone?" A bushy brow was raised and Doctor Smith crinkled his nose, gently clearing his throat. Will looked up from the floor, a bitter chuckle slipping through his parted lips. "Well, I already knew that much."

The other man nodded, clapping his hands together in that odd fashion of his before leaning closer towards Will and pointing with his two forefingers. "You sir, are in the best hands anybody could hope to be in. With Doctor Lecter's expertise I don't doubt for a _second _that you're not going to get better. It'll be a gradual process, but Lecter is a very patient man. He'll do you good."

"You talk about him as if I don't know him," Will muttered, tilting his chin towards the air. He placed clasped fingers in his lap before unfurling them, scratching at his bony thigh.

"He's your psychiatrist," the other harshly replied, "You don't know him as well as you think you do. And I am sincerely hoping that you are not implying of any sort of….relationship that could be going on between you two. That is a violation, Mr Graham, and will result in-"

"—termination of my treatment," Will bit, digging his nails into his skin. "I know, and I never implied anything of the sort. You forget that I…I'm able to psychoanalyze too, Doctor Smith."

The silence lasted between the two of them for a mere minute or so. The words that had been so harshly spoken, so forced were straining the atmosphere, the Doctor's usually kind nature turning frosty. He was used to patients sitting and being passive, to being the 'leader' of the conversation, but here sat Will Graham, talking to him as if he had known him for more than two weeks. In the end he would be happy to see the back of Graham's head as he walked through the door; he had already accidentally made his dislike of the patient clear when Hannibal had been lurking near his office. The pair were odd, to say the least, but he had no interest in what went on behind closed doors. What he did have an interest in, however, was if someone as unstable as Will could live again.

"Well, awkwardness aside," Smith coughed, loosening his tie, "I think it's time we talked diagnosis."

He hated that word. Will already knew of his mental instability, of his incapability to be 'normal'. The pain in his chest from the morning had returned, and Will found himself swallowing to rid of the lump that had formed in his dry throat. The pang of hunger within his stomach was always there, so often it nearly always felt normal, but the word brought it gnaw at his insides. And Will gingerly nodded, bringing a hand to his gulping throat, stroking the neck as his adam's able bobbed up and down rapidly.

"After discussion with the nurses who have taken care of you, and after consulting Doctor Lecter, it is important for us to realise that there is nothing we can see on the brain scan that can contribute to your first problem. This leads us to ask what will happen next, but the plan for now is to monitor you closely and for Doctor Lecter to report back to me if anything should seem to deteriorate."

Will nodded. "I don't have much say in this, do I?" _Wind him up and watch him go._

"No," Doctor Smith replied, pushing his notes to him. "You don't."

The sheer white of the walls stung his head and the plastic chair hurt his back. The writing on the page was nothing but black scribble, something unreadable. Will merely scanned over the words, pretending he had read them. He didn't want to know what was wrong with himself, because he _knew _what was wrong with himself—they were lying, forcing ideas into his head. The only thing wrong with himself, he had decided, was his mental instability. That was it, nothing more.

He slid the papers back towards the doctor with lips pressed into a thin line, his brows furrowed and hands shaking. "Thank you. I'll be going now."

"Good evening."

* * *

"You have not said a word to me, Will. It concerns me."

A small, slight chuckled slipped through Will's parched lips and he sighed, pressing his head against the car's seat. "A lot of things concern you," he muttered, blinking hard as another car's bright lights passed by.

"That is true," Hannibal replied, momentarily glancing across at Will. Gloved hands were clutching hold of the steering wheel tightly, his jaw tightly clenched as he tried hard to ignore the growing hunger he felt gnawing within.

Will did not reply. He merely continued to sit in silence, blinking hard every time they passed another car with its ghastly lights, every time he remembered something else that lingered within his mind and made him a monster. He should have felt safe in that very moment, sat in the car with his light quite literally guiding him to a home of some sorts, but still doubt lived within him and pierced him like a needle. He didn't know what to say, either. His words didn't come out normal like other people's did; so much effort had to be put into saying them, stumbling over them as they gathered behind his lower lip.

He ignored the searching glances Hannibal gave them as they drove on through the long and relentless night, his eyelids drooping as each mile passed by. He thought about what he would do when faced with colleagues, how to face the likes of Alana Bloom who had so harshly dismissed. They would all peer at him with silently taunting eyes as he walked through those doors, no one asking the right questions, no one asking what drove him to do it because they all thought they knew the reason. They all figured he was so distraught by what he had witnessed, by what he had seen—and it wasn't a lie in its entirety, it was the fact that he felt distraught with the thoughts that lingered in his mind.

His issues were flat and hollow, meaning they should have had no meaning whatsoever, but meant so much to him. He knew that nobody else would mind meaning in them- at least, not like he did. Will thought that, to know something or to find meaning within it, you had to be the person experiencing it. And God was he experiencing it. He was experiencing so much he wondered how his mind was still functioning, how he could still bring himself to love. Blue eyes flickered across to settle on the shadow as they had done so many times before, his hand reaching out to gently greet Hannibal's.

Hannibal felt the flesh upon his glove, cold and shaking, and opened his hand so Will could place it there. He smiled softly into the darkness, lips twitching as if he wanted to say those three words, but he didn't. He turned back to face the darkness and let Will seek comfort in his touch. It was the best way, after all.

And whilst this hand brought Will some comfort, he still could not stop the anxieties flooding through: how he would explain himself to Abigail, how he would apologise to Alana for being so ruthless in the way he treated her, how to explain to Hannibal how frightened he was to love him. Will feared his colleagues would find out about his depression and would immediately have this connection with him, because they'd assume they knew what it was like, depression. They would assume they had experienced it because they had been through divorce or broken up with someone, but those experiences they would have would contain feelings, something which depression would confuse. It was tiring to think of those rumours he would have to debunk about himself and the illness, or how worried he would become when around people. He not only feared being around people because of eye contact and questions, but because people would not stand to be around him. They might try to make some feigned effort at spending time with him, might try to 'cheer him up', but only because they felt obliged to. It was as if when you become depressed, people suddenly feel as if a great burden has been bestowed upon them; a duty to spend time with that person, despite knowing that they are utterly tedious and ridiculous. That's how Will felt, anyway.

He felt irritable because he lacked sleep, shaky because he lacked food, and paranoid and lifeless and critical and demanding- So, so demanding. He wanted nothing more than to return to his own bed, instead of the one Hannibal was giving him, and to curl himself up in his sheets and lose himself so much he would never be found. He was frightened and fighting, but not even Hannibal's warm hand could stop such feelings.

All he knew was that he never wanted to be alone.

"Hannibal?"

"Yes, Will?"

"Please..." He thickly swallowed. "Please don't give up on me."

"Never," the other murmured, bringing Will's hand to his lips. "I would never, so long as you never give up on me."

"No matter what."

Hannibal thinly smiled, placing Will's hand on his thigh and patting it. "No matter what."


End file.
